


breathe 'til i evaporate

by indefinissable



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Law Student Sam, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Veteran Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 02:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8082835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable/pseuds/indefinissable
Summary: Sam coughs weakly, trying to get his breath back. “Dean. Hey. It was a car.”Dean doesn’t hear him. Sam knows he’s somewhere far away, with sand crusted under his fingernails and the hot sun pulsing down on him. The shrill ring of gunfire echoing in his ears and the iron tang of blood hanging thick and damp in the air.





	

They’re having a good morning, for once. 

Sam wakes with his alarm just before dawn and goes for a run in the early mist, watches the sun rise pink and cool over the water. When he gets home, the apartment is filled with the sweet, candied-salt smell of bacon and soft music is playing on his iPod speakers. 

Dean is at the stove making breakfast. He has showered and shaven, and the set of his shoulders is relaxed as he limps around the kitchen unaided, cane leaning against the counter nearby. He looks up with clear eyes when Sam comes through the door, greets him with a “Morning, Sammy.”

After breakfast, Dean clears the plates and washes the dishes and Sam takes out his books to study for a torts exam coming up. Dean sits opposite him at the table, props his bad leg up on a chair and flips open his copy of Jailbird for the hundredth time. They sit in comfortable silence for an hour or so, and then Sam takes a break and they talk for a while. Sam tells a story about his dickhead civil procedure prof and Dean tips his head back and laughs, clear and bright like a bell, resonating warm in Sam’s ribcage.

The ghost of a smile is still lingering on Dean’s lips when a car backfires in the street outside.

The sharp pop reverberates between the buildings. Sam jumps, momentarily startled, regains his bearings in time to see Dean fling himself out of his chair and across the table. Dean slams into Sam hard, shoving him off his seat and onto the ground. Sam’s shoulder cracks against the hardwood and all the air is knocked out of his lungs.

Everything falls still. Dean is shielding Sam with his own body, curled around him like a shell. His breaths stutter out shallow and too quick. He is gripping Sam’s upper arms tight enough that Sam knows there will be fingerprint bruises there the next time he looks. Dean’s face has gone pale and his eyes are wide and unfocused, fixed on something Sam can’t see.

Sam coughs weakly, trying to get his breath back. “Dean. Hey. It was a car.”

Dean doesn’t hear him. Sam knows he’s somewhere far away, with sand crusted under his fingernails and the hot sun pulsing down on him. The shrill ring of gunfire echoing in his ears and the iron tang of blood hanging thick and damp in the air.

“Dean.” Sam keeps his voice low and soothing. He holds very still, knows how dangerous it can be to touch Dean when he’s like this. “Look at me. You’re safe. Hey, wherever you think you are, you’re not there. You’re here, at home with me, and we’re okay.”

Dean shudders. His hands flex against Sam’s biceps, gripping painfully tight and then easing up a bit. His eyes, still wild like a spooked animal’s, flicker over Sam’s face, panicked and uncertain.

Slowly and carefully, Sam moves his arm, touches his hand to the space just below Dean’s sternum, splays his fingers there. “Come on, take a breath. Breathe from your stomach, Dean. Right here.” He draws in a deep, measured breath, sets a rhythm for Dean to follow.

The minutes tick by. It’s quiet except for Dean’s gasping breaths and the murmured encouragements Sam gives with every few inhales: That’s good, and You’re safe, and You made it home, Dean. You came back. Slowly, Dean starts to suck in air a little more rhythmically. His white-knuckle grasp on Sam loosens infinitesimally and his eyes clear and focus as he comes back.

Finally, Dean lets go of Sam’s arms, rolls off of him. His face twists and he grunts in pain – he’d landed hard on his bad knee when he threw himself at Sam. Dean exhales, long and shaky, and looks down at his hands, cradled in his lap.

Sam takes a moment to collect himself. His shoulder twinges where it hit the ground as he pushes himself up slowly, re-inserts himself into Dean’s line of vision. He telegraphs his movements carefully, reaches out to cover Dean’s hands with his own, presses his thumb into the curve of Dean’s palm.

“Can you tell me where you are?”

Dean licks his lips, still getting his breath back. “H-home.”

Relief floods through Sam. “Good. That’s good, Dean. Think you can get up now?”

Dean nods jerkily but doesn’t move. He’s quiet and pliant when Sam stands and reaches down to help him up. Sam supports his weight over to the couch, Dean’s bad leg buckling under him with every step. He helps Dean stretch his leg out on the cushions, then covers him with a blanket. Dean is starting to shiver, teeth clattering together audibly. It happens sometimes, when he gets like this, like all his warmth evaporates into the memories of heat and dust and sand.

Sam fills a glass with water, taps two Vicodin into Dean’s palm and encourages him to take them. Dean’s face is grey with pain, his mouth a grim line. He meets Sam’s gaze with hollow, glassy eyes.

When Dean speaks, his voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming. “Fuck. Shit. Sam.”

Sam squeezes his hand gently. “It’s okay.”

“Sorry,” he says, sounding wrecked with guilt.

“Not your fault,” Sam says firmly. “Not even a little bit. Hey, we’re safe. I didn’t get hurt. We’re both okay.”

Dean starts to shake his head before Sam finishes speaking, the movement rapid and convulsive. Sam knows he wants nothing more than to retreat back to his room, curl up under the blankets and stay there for a good long while. When he emerges in a couple of days he’ll be limping heavily and gaunt around the eyes like those first weeks after he got back, silent and withdrawn during the day and screaming his way through nightmares after dark.

Right now, though, Dean clings to Sam’s hand like he’s drowning in open water and Sam is a life raft. Sam hopes he’s enough to keep them both afloat.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my [tumblr](http://withthedemonblood.tumblr.com).


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